


Colors - A Flynn and Mathias Valentine

by JaguarMirror



Series: Somewhere in Time [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarMirror/pseuds/JaguarMirror
Summary: It's their first holiday together.Fluff.  Complete fluff.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Series: Somewhere in Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163147
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	Colors - A Flynn and Mathias Valentine

The apartment was full of golden light and the odor of something that involved meat and potatoes cooking; a homey, comforting sort of smell that enfolded Mathias as he stepped through the door. Last year he'd spent the holiday as he had every year before this, eating something from the Pig and Whistle tavern as he sat at his table and watched the sunset paint the limestone walls of Stormwind with hues of red and gold as flocks of migrating birds circled in to roost along the rooftops and trees of the capital city.

All that had changed after Flynn came roaring into his life with all the force of one of Stormwind's sudden winter storms -- overpowering and unstoppable, leaving everything fresh and new and somewhat damp in their wake. His old nest, a plain apartment with only a few personal items beyond his clothes, had turned into a slightly more cluttered but _interesting_ place, with library books piled on the end table and a small vase filled with what Flynn called "lucky seashells" near the window and almost always the smell of something cooking.

Home. Refuge. Mathias closed the door behind him and sagged against the wood, feeling utterly drained. 

Flynn turned and brightened at the sound. “Ahhh, poor little kipper,” he said with a soft smile, tossing the kitchen towel over his shoulder. He took Mathias into his arms and kissed his forehead. “You look like sixty leagues of bad road today.” 

That was another thing that had changed as well. Life before Flynn had been impersonal and formal, neat and orderly. Life with Flynn was breathtaking and full of affection; pet nicknames, touches, embraces -- things that were difficult to accept and almost impossible to give. It surprised him when he realized how hungry he truly was for these little signs of affection; filing them away in his memory for safekeeping. 

Now he allowed himself to sag into the warm embrace; allowed himself to admit to being something less than immortal and perfect. “I feel like sixty leagues of bad paperwork. My head feels like one of those brutosaurs has been flouncing around in it. I don’t think anything short of a full-scale elekk stampede is going to get me out of bed tomorrow.”

“Plans for tonight didn’t include wild animals. Well, except for me. And maybe you. And food. But no elekks.” Flynn nipped lightly at his earlobe, sending a shiver down his back. “Food’s ready,” he said as he stepped back. “Take your gear off and tell me about the day.”

Mathias tugged at the buckle straps. “I think the biggest news I have for you -- for us -- is that we’ve redone the security clearances for the Lion’s Guards and everyone’s passed, so no more late nights reviewing piles of paper for now. I think Renzik's wife was about to put out a contract on me if I kept him working late tonight.” He set his leather gear on the armor stand and began the nightly process of checking it for signs of damage and wear. “I haven't convinced the king to change his audience room from the big central area of the keep to something more controllable, but he did finally agree to let us change uniforms for the interior guards. As Wrathion pointed out, you really can’t see who’s wearing that helmet.”

“Makes sense. I mean almost anyone could clank up to me in Wyrmbane’s armor and I probably couldn’t tell the difference.”

Mathias paused, his hand over the tube of leather dressing he used to clean his armor. The problem wasn’t just Stormwind guards -- the armored military units were full of anonymous people in plate mail. Faces and friendships formed in the barracks -- but on duty, anyone in the proper armor was assumed to be part of a unit. Wrathion was right about the danger of traditions. He’d have to talk with Wyrmbane before the dragon decided to try and reform the Alliance's military practices. While the dragon meant well, his mouth had a tendency to engage before his brain did. Wyrmbane was the old soldier’s title; not his family name and the odds were good that he wouldn't take kindly to a dragon trying to tell him how to run the Alliance army.

“Mathias, love, you’re scowling.”

Flynn leaned against the stove, arms folded, grinning.

He looked up and smiled. “Just wondering if I should replace my leathers.” He carefully tipped a drop of almond oil onto his right vambrace and began working it into the surface.

“Right. That one’s as old as last week’s fish. You’re thinking about something that’s got you worried but it’s SI:7 business so you can’t really talk about it.” He turned back to the stove and gave the pot a brisk stir. “Dinner's almost done. Meantime, maybe this will brighten you up.”

Mathias looked up.

Flynn picked a wooden box off the fireplace mantle and handed it to him almost shyly. “It’s kind of a fish-to-Boralus sort of thing, but I saw it and thought you might like it.” The Kul Tiran’s expression was bright and confident but there was a certain rigidness about his smile that meant he was nervous. 

Mathias smiled reassuringly and then opened the lid and stared at the contents, frozen in astonishment. Inside, resting on folded cloth padding, was a capped tube, three brushes, an inkstone, and a rainbowed array of ink sticks. 

Flynn had bought him a gift. 

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone gave him a present. Edwin had given him a very nice dagger that he took as part of his payment from a job, but he couldn’t recall anyone taking money and simply going to a merchant and buying something for him that wasn’t food or drink. “Pandaran,” he whispered, touching the vividly colored blocks of pigment with his fingers. “These are Pandaren inks. So beautiful. Very… high quality.”

He couldn’t think of any words. He swallowed hard and looked up. “It… This is amazing.” It was a terrible response. There was no way to explain how amazing it was that someone would think to buy something for him simply to please him, with nothing expected in return. His eyes were watering, but he didn’t care.

Flynn’s smile was shy. “I saw some of your drawings. You’re very good. Thought you might like to try color sometime.”

He pushed himself up and wrapped Flynn in a tight hug. “... most wonderful,” was all he could manage. _Grown men don’t cry,_ the ghost of his grandmother whispered to him. _Feelings are for manipulation - assassins don’t feel. Boys don’t cry._ The wetness around his eyes was simply from allergies.

Just allergies.

“You scoundrel,” he whispered into that broad chest. He still couldn’t bring himself to use any of the words that came so easily to Flynn -- sweetheart, sweetling, dear, love… words of affection. ‘Scoundrel’ was the closest he could manage, but Flynn seemed to understand completely.

A broad hand stroked the back of his neck. “And all yours,” Flynn whispered into his hair. “All yours.”


End file.
